Mike the Angel did not in commuting. Being a bachelor, he to in that belief. In his of offices on 112th Street, there was one door marked “M. R. Gabriel.” Behind that door was his private secretary’s office, which as an himself and the employees of the firm. Behind the secretary’s office was his own office.
There was still another door in his office, a plain, door that looked as though it might a closet.
It didn’t. It was the door to a veddy, with appointments. One wall, thirty long and ten high, was a nearly invisible, of polished, that gave the the that there was nothing him and the city street, five hundred below.
The lights of the city, through the wall, gave the room of after sunset, but the of a it black, perfect privacy.
The was massive, braced, and well upholstered. It had to be; Mike the Angel liked to into chairs, and his two hundred and sixty gave chairs a of punishment.
On one of the was Dali’s original “Eucharist,” with its muffled, looking in the of city lights and illumination. Farther back, a Valois above the bas-reliefs of its depths.
It was the of Mike the Angel liked. He sleep, if necessary, on a park bench or in a trench, but he didn’t see any for doing so if he sleep on a five-hundred-dollar floater.
As he had passed through each door, he had them carefully. His had a special that up a lamp in the key if the lock had been with. None of them had.
He opened the final door, into his apartment, and locked the door him, as he had locked the others. Then he on the lights, off his raincoat, and himself into a chair to the he had up at Harry’s.
Theoretically, Harry wasn’t to sell the things. They were still difficult to make, and they were to be used only by who were to brains, since that’s what the was—a part of a brain. Mike have put his hands on one legally, provided he’d wanted to wait for six or eight months to clear up the red tape. Actually, the big didn’t want around with robots; they’d much the themselves and rent them out. They couldn’t make do-it-yourself impossible, but they make them difficult.
In a way, there was some good done. So far, the JD’s hadn’t gone into big-scale robotics. Self-controlled be nasty.
Adult criminals, of course, already had them. But an adult who had the money to in components, or to the trouble to them, had something more in mind than or barrooms. To a bank, for instance, took a constructed, well-designed and of on the part of the operator.
Mike the Angel didn’t want to make or bankrobbers; he just wanted to with the stack, see what it would do. He it over in his hands a of times, then shrugged, got up, over to his closet, and put the thing away. There wasn’t anything he do with it until he’d a cryostat—a liquid refrigerator. A functions only at near zero.
The phone chimed.
Mike over to it, the switch, and said: “Gabriel speaking.”
No image on the screen. A voice said: “Sorry, number.” There was a click, and the phone dead. Mike and the cutoff. Sounded like a woman. He he have her face.
Mike got up and walked to his easy chair. He had no sooner sat than the phone again. Damn!
Up again. Back to the phone.
“Gabriel speaking.”
Again, no image formed.
“Look, lady,” Mike said, “why don’t you look up the number you want of me?”
Suddenly there was an image. It was the of an man with a mild, face, white hair, and a cold look in his eyes. It was Basil Wallingford, the Minister for Spatial Affairs.
He said: “Mike, I wasn’t aware that your position was such that you to be to a Portfolio of the Earth Government.” His voice was flat, without either anger or humor.
“I’m not sure it is, myself,” Mike the Angel, “but I do the best I can with the I have to work with. I didn’t know it was you, Wally. I just had some wrong-number trouble. Sorry.”
“Mf.... Well.... I called to tell you that the Branchell is for your final inspection. Or will be, that is, in a week.”
“My final inspection?” Mike the Angel his golden-blond eyebrows. “Hell, Wally, Serge Paulvitch is on the job there, isn’t he? You don’t need my okay. If Serge says it’s to go, it’s to go. Or is there some of trouble you haven’t mentioned yet?”
“No; no trouble,” said Wallingford. “But the power plant on that ship was according to your designs—not Mr. Paulvitch’s. The Bureau of Space that you should give them the final check.”
Mike when to argue and when not to, and he that this was one time when it wouldn’t do him the good. “All right,” he said resignedly. “I don’t like Antarctica and will, but I I can it for a days.”
“Fine. One more thing. Do you have a copy of the for Cargo Hold One? Our copy got in transmission, and there to be a in the figures.”
Mike nodded. “Sure. They’re in my office. Want me to them now?”
“Please. I’ll on.”
Mike the Angel it in time. He to the door that to his office, opened it, through, and closed it him just as the blast off.
The door Mike, but it didn’t give. Mike’s was soundproof, but it wasn’t to take the of that would shake the door that Mike the Angel had just closed. It was a two-inch-thick of on heavy, precision-bearing hinges. So was every other door in the suite. It wasn’t a bank-vault door, but it would do. Any that shake it was a doozy.
Mike the Angel around and looked at the door. It was just a warped, and of were around the where the seal had been broken. Mike sniffed, then and ran. He opened a in his and took out a big roll of tape. Then he took a breath, to the door, and on a of the one-inch tape, it all around the of the door. Then he into the office while the air out his private office.
He over to one of the near the and for the operator. “I had a long-distance call in here from the Right Excellent Basil Wallingford, Minister for Spatial Affairs, Capitol City. We were cut off.”
“One moment please.” A pause. “His Excellency is here, Mr. Gabriel.”
Wallingford’s came on the screen. It had some of its ruddiness. “What happened?” he asked.
“You tell me, Wally,” Mike snapped. “Did you see anything at all?”
“All I saw was that big of break. It into a thousand pieces, and then something and the phone dead.”
“The first?”
“That’s right.”
Mike sighed. “Good. I was that maybe someone had planted that bomb, than it in. I’d to think anyone into my place without my it.”
“Who’s for you?”
“I wish I knew. Look, Wally, can you wait until tomorrow for those specs? I want to of the police.”
“Certainly. Nothing urgent. It can wait. I’ll call you again tomorrow evening.” The screen blanked.
Mike at the clock and then a number on the phone. A girl in a came on the screen.
“Police Central,” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Detective Sergeant William Cowder, please,” Mike said. “Just tell him that Mr. Gabriel has more problems.”
She looked puzzled, but she nodded, and soon her image out. The screen blank, but Sergeant Cowder’s voice came over the speaker. “What is it, Mr. Gabriel?”
He was speaking from a pocket phone.
“Attempted murder,” said Mike the Angel. “A minutes ago a bomb was set off in my apartment. I think it was a rocket, and I know it was with cyanide. That’s Suite 5000, Timmins Building, up on 112th Street. I called you I have a it’s with the at Harry’s this evening.”
“Timmins Building, eh? I’ll be right up.”
Cowder cut off with a click, and Mike the Angel looked at the screen. Was he things, or was there a note in Cowder’s voice?
Two minutes later he got his answer.
